Not Our Brother’s Keeper: The True Adventures of an Extraordinary Man

By Melker Stec

As in Frank W. Abagnale’s Catch Me if You Can, alias Frank Williams, Robert Conrad, Frank Adams and Ringo Monjo were one of the most daring con-men, forgers, imposters and escape artists in history. In Not Our Brother’s Keeper: The True Adventures of an Extraordinary Man, while Melker Stec was on the lam, he managed to sustain employment in influential governmental positions. The FBI actively searched for Melker Stec while he maintained friends who worked in law enforcement, including a workout partner who was hired by the FBI to search for fugitives.

Melker Stec learned that the PERS public pension – The USA’s largest public pension - permitted his brother, Abaddon - who had a relationship with the PERS manager in the refund section, easily solicited her cooperation to embezzle Melker Stec’s entire PERS pension. Abaddon also mismanaged all of Stec’s several properties, and deflated his numerous bank accounts - assets of over 2 million dollars

Stec's story is very interesting and inspirational.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: May 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781483498188

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STEC

Copyright © 2019 Melker Stec.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

You may contact the author at [e-mail]

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-9816-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-9817-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-9818-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019901765

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date:     03/27/2019

And the LORD said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy brother? And he said, I know not: Am I my brother›s keeper?

King James Version (KJV)

Genesis 4:9

DEDICATION

I dedicate this book to my genuinely loving, ingenuously pure, tremendously loyal, very kind-hearted and caring, always supportive and God-fearing dedicated mom, who has been living with Alzheimer’s Disease for several years: to my sisters, who embrace mom’s exceptional qualities, and my great friends, Marvel and Ejaz, who have proven their immeasurable dedication and loyalty to me when I needed them most.

FOREWORD

Melker Stec’s Not Our Brother’s Keeper: The True Adventures of an Extraordinary Man, is a real keeper in many ways. It is my pleasure to write this foreword to help share widely my enthusiasm for this special book.

I have been a research psychologist and educator since graduating from Yale University, Ph.D., 1959. I have taught in many universities over the past fifty years; including New York University and Columbia University.

When Melker Stec gave me his manuscript to read, I found it tremendously compelling from the beginning to the end. I was especially interested in Melker’s story, being that I was the creator of the classic 1971 Stanford Prison Experiment. Melker gives a complete real-life understanding, involvement, and experiences first from a prison correctional counselor’s perspective with peace officer status, to the complete opposite—that of a prison inmate perspective with no status. Melker’s remarkable ability to survive throughout these numerous ongoing lifelong trials is remarkable. Had I not seen Melker’s documentation and further confirmation of his remarkable story, I would find this melodramatic piece of work fiction rather than documentary nonfiction. Melker’s book literally appears to be written about numerous people living completely separate lives, but it’s solely Melker living his life from one scene and one character, to the next.

Beginning from the early age of five, after his father slammed the back of Melker and his eight-year-old brother Abaddon’s heads together, knocking Melker unconscious, Melker remembers subsequent struggles with visual and auditory hallucinations that resulted in his mother rushing him to the naval hospital emergency room time after time. He also survived being raised in a very dictatorship-like church. Melker’s ability to survive and to conceal his struggles is simply amazing!

Melker lead a conservative and law-abiding lifestyle up until his crime of passion that resulted in an overnight dramatic change with unpredictable, spontaneous and riveting events, one after another. Prior to his arrest, Melker managed a successful career working for the Georgia State Government in several capacities, including correctional counselor, and governmental analyst. Melker writes of the corruption he observed from his peers - other correctional employees, including his supervisor. He became a heroic rescuer following his struggle and defiance against unjust authorities by refusing to comply with direct orders to allow a sixteen-year old minor ward to remain in a cell with adult aged men, who had been repeatedly sexually abusing him.

And after Melker was arrested and posted bail - while on the lam, he managed to sustain employment in influential positions, including the Georgia Department of Environment and Natural Resources, and the Georgia Department of Corrections in a specialized position. I find it rather amazing that while law enforcement, including the FBI, was actively searching for Melker, he was traveling to several prisons throughout Georgia and meeting with prison authorities. He also maintained friends who worked in law enforcement, including a workout partner who was on his way to the FBI academy to search for fugitives! His story continues in even more remarkable ways!

Melker writes about his betrayal by his significant other, his friend of over thirty years, and his older siblings. After his initial arrest, while Melker was out on bail, he describes his family reunion that included dancing with his cousin, Stedman Graham’s, lady friend, Oprah Winfrey, to her favorite song The Margarita! Melker successfully transitioned into several different identities - living throughout Europe, Puerto Rico, and the United States. His ability to easily conform to the identity he was living included acquiring valid licenses, passing background checks, and acquiring respectable jobs.

Melker had to deal with his Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) and hallucinations untreated throughout his life. He was not correctly diagnosed or given correct medication until Dr. Ram Smyth, chief psychiatrist at the Georgia Prison Systems, diagnosed and treated him after his parole in early 2015.

So I hope from my brief overview of what is coming to readers of Not Our Brother’s Keeper: The True Adventures of an Extraordinary Man, you will be transfixed by the unique twists and turns in the life story of this one of a kind delightful man.

Phil Zimbardo

Dr. Philip G. Zimbardo

Professor Emeritus of Psychology, Stanford University

President & Founder, Heroic Imagination Project

March 10, 2018

PREFACE

This book is about me. It’s about my childhood and my adult years. It’s about the familial, cultural, and social influences that fashioned my existence and made me the man I am today. It’s about my struggles, it’s about my successes – it’s about my highs and my lows.

OCD has always been my cross to bear. This brain-based anxiety disorder has caused me considerable impairment and suffering my entire life. Compulsions and rituals took up so much of my time that they interfered with school, work, and social obligations.

My mom used to try to comfort me.

The good Lord will never give you more than you can handle, my son, she’d say to me in my darkest hours. Despite what OCD has done to me, I still believe there’s truth in these words.

Over the years, professional help has enabled me to understand why I lost my way. I am, more than anything, sincerely remorseful for many things in my past. I was taken advantage of and duped by an older brother who stole everything I owned. Though I have forgiven him, efforts towards both restitution and retribution have to be made for me to be sure that he’s sorry for his actions.

It’s taken me over fifty years to live my story -— so, it made sense that it was going to take a while to create a memoir to house these excerpts from my life.

Though my journey had been far from perfect, I felt the need to document it as truthfully as possible. For many parts of this memoir, I had to rely on my memory alone, so it’s possible that every statement made isn’t absolutely accurate. But everything that happened was true. I lived every part of it.

I didn’t want to write a story of plain, cold facts. I wanted to write one about flesh, and about blood, and about spirit. I wanted the breath of life pulsating through it. I have retraced my footprints carefully to organize an honest and genuine account.

My intention has never been to hurt or upset my family or my friends, but it’s so important to me to write a reflection that is as accurate as possible.

Bad personal experiences and stressful work environments can sometimes make ethics and morality a confusing, fuzzy area to navigate.

Life comes at you fast -- so fast that it’s natural to react by making the choice that is least painful in that moment. To relieve temporary discomfort, we opt for a decision to get out of trouble momentarily. But most of the time, the fast decision is the wrong decision. The easy decision is the wrong decision. The decision that fixes the immediate present is the wrong decision – at least, that’s been my experience. I have worked as an analyst for several years, so when I am able to remember to pause and analyze the situation, I almost always make the right decision.

In the past, I had believed that when someone purposely betrayed me in a big way, they had to be held accountable for their behavior and that it is my job to see that it got done. My mind and body had been screaming out to do whatever it takes to relieve the pressure and pain that pressed down on me in the moment.

This book is designed to provide information and motivation to those who read it. It does not offer any type of medical, psychological, legal, or any other kind of professional advice. The content of each article is the sole expression and opinion of its author, who will not be liable for any physical, mental, emotional, financial, or commercial damages, including, but not limited to, special, incidental, consequential or other damages.

In the interest of telling my story as truthfully as possible, I have explained -- but have made no excuses for -- my life as I have chosen to live it.

People are responsible for their own choices, actions, and results. I am no exception.

While there may be readers who can identify with my wild ride, it is equally possible that many will not understand the driving force, and might possibly be appalled by my audacity or villainy. Whether certain bits are challenging, disturbing, or entertaining, it is my hope that Not Our Brother’s Keeper: The True Adventures of an Extraordinary Man engages and creates a deeper and broader kind of understanding regardless of perspective.

Let’s face it, every man is his brother’s keeper in that we have a responsibility to watch out for and care for one another.

If we have failed in our duty, it must be our ultimate endeavor to try to make amends and retribution to those we have affected.

1

Telling It like It Is.

It’s no wonder that truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense.

Mark Twain

‘I KILLED MY grandparents,’ Dnias Bailey said in a rough voice, cutting through the silence. I turned away from the barred window to see my cellie lying on the top bunk of a six by eight feet cell. We were surrounded by nothing but brick walls and a steel solid door that locked from the outside.

‘I flipped my lid.’ Dnias continued. ‘I can’t explain why, how, okay. A lot of my friends, you can ask them, they’ll tell you, I’m not normal.’

‘What the…? I have enough of my own shit to deal with!’ A sharp spasm of my obsessive condition inwardly prompted me to reply, but I outwardly remained very calm, compassionate, understanding, and attentive to Dnias Bailey’s unsolicited confession. It was June 1, 2001. I didn’t need reminding that only the not normal were incarcerated here. I relived my childhood terror that one day I would be institutionalized in Georgia State Mental hospital, where Uncle Zan worked as a chef. A wave of fear washed over me. This place was close to the real thing with its population of lunatics-staff included. I was annoyed by the intrusion, but remained outwardly composed and unaffected; it was my first week here and much too soon to connect and soak in the ambiance. I have almost fourteen years to contemplate why I’m inside, so baby steps.

My heart beat rapidly and my temples throbbed. My head was about to explode and my body was in break-down mode. Living with anxiety was hard because it was always there even when I felt safe; it was always present, lurking under my skin just waiting for a chance to erupt into a full-blown attack. That awareness made me even more anxious; it didn’t matter what I did or how focused I was. Prompts of its existence were routine and I was never allowed to forget enough to be comfortable. All those who observed me would describe me as composed and calm, because I almost always appeared peaceful and collected, and not easily agitated, animated, or anxious.

When my cellie spoke, I recognized the onset of a bout of anxiety with the host of diverse conditions that accompanied it, like party guests, the more the merrier; it could be both physically and mentally overwhelming for this host. I didn’t want to go there and immediately began the process of calming myself down. I took a few deep breaths, counted in my head, blocked what was happening presently around me, and imagined myself by the pool after a daily brisk swim in Atlanta, or by the beach waters of San Jade. They usually helped me get back in control a lot of time, if I really concentrated. There were a few secrets around this place but I did reassure my loyalties. Oftentimes, I couldn’t tell whether my cellie wanted to share his information with me or was simply talking to himself. His remarks took me by surprise; they were quite unrelated to our apathetic, spasmodic observations about the declining standards of cuisine at the Atlanta County Jail. In fact, the food they dished up was disgusting; the half rotten and stale slice of bread, with a slab of slimy butter, a cross between Styrofoam and leather. Something I could not grind down and swallow. I could only choke it down with fermented apple juice; equal to anything old Mrs. Banks served up at Drellwood High School cafeteria.

Stress overwhelmed my brain that it reduced the energy it provided to other parts of my body. I felt catatonic, and turmoil bubbled below the surface. I had no answer to Dnias’ abrupt, unemotional declaration. His comments were delivered in such a matter-of-fact way, as casually as if he suddenly acknowledged a memorable moment that popped into his head, a family event that was worth mentioning. It probably was just another day in the life of Dnias Bailey, a twenty-year-old nice looking, well-built, and tall white American who picked up a sawed off shotgun and blasted his elderly relatives clear out of this world. I would’ve loved to get out into the yard for fresh air and exercise, but the buzzer that allowed us the privilege to step outside hadn’t rung yet. So, I remained restrained in my inner anxiousness and outward serenity; imprisoned with my cellie.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw this mentally under-developed Dnias Bailey lay on the upper bunk, arms cushioning his head and staring up at the ceiling. He looked so young and vulnerable, and I felt a moment of pity. My obsessive condition enfolded me in a chastising embrace, always allowing no room for sympathy. For a disorder, my ailment was immensely in order. It reminded me that empathy was an apt word for what I was feeling right now. Not that Dnias’ situation and mine were similar, but relatives could get on one’s nerves.

A year after my parole, I moved to Atlanta, and my sister Molly tried my patience sorely. She used to be kind of fun to be around when we were younger, but she had changed into an angry black woman.

‘I will never forget Dad taking Maria’s side over her,’ she had said about Mom’s caretaker back in December 2017. Maria had been Mom’s caretaker for a year, until my second year out of prison after serving thirteen and a half years on a life term sentence. Well, while we were growing up, my father clearly and always treated Molly better than the rest of us, neglecting me, my four brothers and especially my sister, Amber. Molly was not used to him ever going against her, and the first time he did when he sided with Maria, the caretaker, Molly wasn’t going to ever forget it. My mom always told me that doing the right thing had its own reward.

‘God is all seeing and all knowing,’ my dear mom often told us. ‘And remember to always do the right thing, because in the long run, doing right always pays off and has its reward for eternity. Would you prefer that God punish you, or I punish you?’

Mom was correct. Molly had to see that and change her behavior. I didn’t want to be bogged down by unhealthy feelings towards any relative of mine. It was counterproductive to my own program of renewal. My sister had become so full of hate and negativity since I had paroled; she had become the type of person I do my best to avoid while I reciprocate the gestures of those who love and support me.

As I sat in my prison cell, I thought, this place is full of craziness, and you don’t belong here! Concentrate on conquering yourself! Until you do, you won’t be able to master anything; recover anything! Strength comes from building up your own mental, physical, emotional, and spiritual states. Keep away from those who choose to commit crimes as you did in the past; let the law guide you. You don’t want to come this way again!

The reality was that the law worked in mysterious ways. In truth, the law, like life, had a lot of different rules to play by. Well-meaning intentions didn’t matter. An internal sense of honor and love and duty counted for squat. The rules were plain and simple like: get yourself the best lawyer money can buy, or you’re in trouble and in for another stretch in the Big House.

While genuine felons made up most of the prison population, I noticed the rest of the inmates were people who were just stupid, had substance abuse problems, lacked impulse control, or otherwise unable to just stay out of trouble. I never considered myself one of them. I was different. I was diverse – I had to be, with all these personalities living inside me. I didn’t belong in the prison; my disorder and bad luck got me here. That was all. A soft snoring told me my companion was asleep and I was grateful for his considerate trip to the Land of Nod. I could return in peace back to my body and plan for the future. I was determined to make some lifestyle changes when I got out. My time in the prison was taking a toll on me, and surviving the experience a was definitely strenuous and stressful.

I was determined that modifications in my mindset would keep me from revisiting another prison. These places were not favored holiday resorts - far from it. For many, serving time was hell on earth, but I actually easily adjusted to my new environment, as I had done when I lived throughout the country and abroad while I was on the lam.

The objective of prison was to rehabilitate its guests and return them to society all good and squeaky clean. But of course, that was not what happened which was why reoffenders kept the penitentiary system in brisk business. Prisons house a collection of criminals and in a living condition that encourages rather than deters crime. The predators were the worst kind of inmates; nothing was off limits to them; no dropping one’s guard around here, or the soap for that matter. So many inmates pick up additional time in prison before reaching their parole date.

Many inmates get stuck in the vicious prison cycle. They go in and out, their entire lives, blaming others for their predicament and choosing not to learn any lessons. Not me! There’s a lesson to be learned from every experience, don’t you think? That was what my obsessive disorder had me believe. Management of my condition would keep me out of places like this, and I knew that.

The harsh, rigid institutional routine deprived inmates of solitude and liberty. It was only to be expected, I suppose, but still hard to accept and endure. The lack of privacy and sparse material conditions made the trip unpleasant and difficult. What was even worse was being subjected to a diminished, stigmatized status. I was someone on the outside and here I am nothing; less than nothing. And, the carte du jour; don’t let me get started again on that!